Invictus: Act 1
by Thestral's Wings
Summary: or: A Treatise on Humanism. The odds against them were incalculable, but they chose to fight in the name of humanity, sacrificing everything to defend their ideals in a condemned world. They would neutralize the atrocities of the Knights of Walpurgis, also known as the Death Eaters, even if it cost them their lives. AU, Marauder-era, 1st year divergence.


"The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis."

"Through me the way is to the city anguished;

Through me the way is to eternal sorrow;

Through me the way among the people condemned.

Justice incited my sublime Creator;

Endowed me with divine omnipotence, with

Celestial wisdom and eternal love.

Before me there was nothing temporal,

Only eternity, and I eternal last.

Surrender as you enter every hope you have...

And nothing, where I now arrive, is shining."- Dante Alighieri, Inferno, Canto IV

"Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future." -Oscar Wilde

Disclaimer: Why would an already universally acclaimed author write FANfiction for her own fandom? It's a fallacy that ultimately contradicts the purpose of fanfics.

**Invictus: Chapter I**

"Arbitrio Fatum" (The Will of Fate)

"Out of the night that covers me,  
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,  
I thank whatever gods may be  
For my unconquerable soul.

"In the fell clutch of circumstance  
I have not winced nor cried aloud.  
Under the bludgeonings of chance  
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

"Beyond this place of wrath and tears  
Looms but the Horror of the shade,  
And yet the menace of the years  
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

"It matters not how strait the gate,  
How charged with punishments the scroll.  
I am the master of my fate:  
I am the captain of my soul."

Remus was abruptly released from oblivion's heavenly embrace into a glimpse of a detached, paradoxical reality. In the miasmic, illusory veil of his semiconsciousness, an obligatory glimpse gave him the fleeting illusion of the environs from whence he came. His celestial mirage of serenity was shattered as the strident notes of an ominously inhuman howl reverberated betwixt the stratums of the aether. The discordant shriek, severing the vestiges of tranquility that had formerly pervaded the twilight air, alerted him of a sinister presence, an unholy spectre that sought destruction.

The aura of the revenant streaked through the air, exuding the shadowed mist of sadistic exultation. His spirit convulsed in a peculiar, unthinkable ecstasy, and after the single, innocuous moment of that impulse, a surge of guilt rushed within him: he had profaned the principles which he had abided by, the philosophy that his instincts, his subconscious desires were to be suppressed. This perspective had been inculcated by his parents, yet Remus, despite his submission, challenged its logic. Another wave of passion struck him; he ascertained, courtesy of the psychoanalysis treatises he had perused, that this was his relentless id. Restrain it, he ordered himself. There was an urgency within him as he linked this presence to a seemingly inconsequential dialogue he had overheard.

The night he was scrying upon their exchange was a soundless one, as if fate had muted the dimensions to fulfill its predestined machinations. A single townhouse remained, devoid of noise yet exuding light long after all others had been extinguished: this was where fate intended to smite one it had condemned since conception. It was a catalyst for debate among the affluent denizens of Hyde Park that the air was tainted with a sanguine aura: eminent scientists had disregarded such claims, yet the cosseted canines that accompanied their wealthy masters were now bestial, seeking to assault all who possessed the audacity to advance. A single hound, among the aforementioned breeds that had been afflicted with bloodlust, strayed from the fulminant illumination of the streetlamp, surveying the single property attesting to life, risking a single tentative sniff, analyzing what tidings the wind might foretell.

A fatigued, yet fashionably dressed man appearing to be in his late twenties had entered, or more precisely reentered, their house, exuding a singular odor of wine and blood. It was self-evident that he was also afflicted, not with the perpetual desperation of the destitute, but a single pressing matter: perhaps a duel? The man was limping, yet whether from injury or intoxication failed to be determined. He had hastily unlocked the door, yet fastened it with a stern determination. He undid the ornate diamond clasp upon his satin cloak, disregarded it, and also forswore the rose upon his lapel. Transfixing Remus' mother with a beseeching stare, he had withdrawn a polished ebony wand from its holster, then set Warding and Caterwauling Charms upon the entrance. Then, he'd proceeded to reinforce the windows with Unbreakable Spells, repeat said process upon the back entrance, and renew the already-cast Anti-Apparition Spell upon the environs. At long last he turned to his wife, the lines of imposed self-denial upon his face. A life pervaded by misfortune had enforced his ideal of vigilance-to contradict all semblance of peace. As an Auror, such discretion was the indistinguishable thread between survival and failure, the watchful were victorious, the reckless inevitably perished.

"What's called for such manic paranoia?" his wife had inquired, her whisper yet betraying disgruntlement at her spouse's unwonted mistrust. "You've been immersed in security, reinstalling locks, strengthening the wards, and you're still feeling vulnerable. Yet you've never bothered to tell me why." He felt a veritable wave of guilt sweep over him, and although he was loath to concede it, concealing such a crucial secret from his wife would be unforgivable.

An uncertain breath, an impulse of regret, and the surreptitious epiphany was unleashed. "I have kept this a secret from you, yet my instinct reminds me of an impending peril, all because I refused to divulge this." His voice, formal and detached, resounded across their bedchamber. He indulged in the luxury of a furtive glance at the window, the shard of moonlight that eluded the satin curtains, yet its luminosity held mere despair for him. "Remember that time when I arrived late from a dispatch? **That particular dispatch?**" he inquired.

A squadron of 100 Aurors had been ordered to suppress the subversive activities of the Knights of Walpurgis, the catalyst for such a death-defying mission being the massacre of 500 pro-Muggle activists. The operation, as expected, was an unprecedented failure for the Ministry, with 81 operatives confirmed as killed in action, while there were 95 total operative losses. The 14 whose fates were uncertain-they were indisputably captured by the terrorist organization, and were regarded as deceased. In regards to the survivors, three were permanently incapacitated by the Cruciatus Curse, and every operative was reported as having suffered near-fatal injuries. This abysmal failure merely served as another witness testifying to the influence of the pureblood sentiment. The debacle had aged him the entirety of ten years, witnessing his subordinates perish before him.

Actaeon Lupin had no intention of tragic martyrdom, and as an Auror Lieutenant, his unyielding pragmatism and lucidity had distinguished him as an expert tactician and a discreet survivor. He had derisively sneered at the quintessentially Gryffindor recruits that strived for gallantry, relentlessly derided the idealist rookies that sought heroism. He had told them to face reality sans illusion and wishful aspiration, yet they had persisted in their seemingly imbecilic ideals. Now… they were all dead, their fates severed by a vain assault, the ashes of their once-passionate dreams dead alongside them. These soldiers had inexorably endured their suffering, faced their inevitable deaths dauntlessly, and to think that he had insulted the memory of those who now slept silent, unsung heroes entombed by the fallow earth… the thought alone was sheer sacrilege. He had limped back, his visage a demonic, sanguine guise of untold suffering, taken what slight recompense and shallow condolences he had received from the Ministry, then promptly rushed to the bar to dispel his resentment, his iniquity and anguish in the inebriated miasma of oblivion.

The memory, already faded by the void of intoxication, persisted to pursue his dreams and his psyche, never to leave this scarred Auror.

"I should have told you this: I quarreled with a stranger at the bar." The words had slipped spontaneously, one of the curious impulses evident in those attempting, to no avail, to repress their emotions.

"What? You got into… a fight?" Artemis Lupin was overtaken by momentary shock, and for a single instant she remained silent, deprived of all rationality, unable to comprehend the magnitude of this statement. Actaeon had realized the faux pas he had committed by divulging this in the first place, and thus he strove, albeit in vain, to obscure his indiscretion.

"It was nothing! Merely a fleeting, physical altercation, no more!" A desperate scream of mortification escaped his lips as he powerlessly watched his frigid, impassive exterior melt and render him as vulnerable as any other person. A flicker of recognition flashed through Artemis' eyes, then died as his epiphany was gradually exposed. He capitulated and said:

"It was merely a brief exchange of blows. I, in my intoxication, had apparently affronted this man. In this dispute, I said things that I now deeply regret."

"What, then, did you happen to utter that has made you so paranoid?" Her voice, usually a serene, melodious soprano, was marred by lofty skepticism.

He strode resolutely toward the freezer, stocked with liquor. This affirmation required dauntlessness, and as he had no intention of being a paragon, courage to him was encased in a flask of Ogden's Old Firewhisky. He uncorked the exorbitantly costly drink with a graceful flourish, as an adept in the art of alcohol, then poured himself a glass. As the flaming drink cascaded down his throat, he felt an innate aspiration for valor as the voice of intoxication urged him to let the kneazle out of the bag.

"I called him a filthy half-breed, the man's extremely unstable and infected with lycanthropy…" His euphemism had an obligatory, insincere nuance to it, as if he preferred the malignantly natural phrasing.

"WHAT?! I wouldn't have thought you so prejudiced!" Artemis, regaining all her previous catatonia, merely stared into emptiness, her peridot eyes unfathomable voids.

"It was only a quarrel, and besides, everything I said was true. Another Auror was there, he resolved this conflict. Potter, he was the one, you should know. As I said, he glared at me like I'd uttered blasphemy. I haven't been able to face my colleagues at the Headquarters since that incident."

"So you're afraid that the whole Auror regiment would attempt to penetrate this building, or is this something else?"

"As they took that… creature away, that freak of nature, he screamed to the world that he'd come after me, that he knew where I lived."

The rest of the dialogue faded into nothingness as nuances of trivial concern were exchanged. Remus extricated himself from the aforementioned reminiscence, his desire for data momentarily satiated. Lycanthropy, he mused, so the assaulter was a werewolf. He'll likely have more pressing appointments at the moment. The child returned to bed, extinguishing the light with the certainty of his invulnerability, drinking of the grail of security.

Then they were enveloped in shadow, thinking themselves utterly impregnable.

==============================incisum=============================

The bushes rustled, shadows nonexistent in the umbral night, with an imperceptible whiff of triumph lingering in the air. The rustling reached a startling crescendo, its discordant notes resonating into the windows as Remus' eyes snapped open, recognizing their surroundings with a reassured, yet staggered sigh. The rose petals that had adorned the bush fluttered upon the silent ground, inanimate wings that had accomplished with their dying breath what countless dreamers had died trying: gliding betwixt the glorious skies and the fallow earth as a temporal wraith slid across the moonlight, casting an intriguingly fatal shadow. He stood in his first profound midnight, basking in the luminous sphere that had held such enigmas to mankind, the most beautiful quandary ever to leave a mystified philosopher mesmerized by its light.

The boy approached further, his irrepressible desire for knowledge piqued, and separated the curtains with another sweeping motion. The cool, fragrant breeze that so often graced midsummer nights made its silent ascent, whirling through the bedchamber and adorning him with countless petals exuding their ineffable perfume. He gazed, captivated, at the catalyst for such illusions of euphoria, as countless visions of adrenaline and ecstasy coursed through his veins, penetrating the most shadowed depths of his soul. Such a vision of perfection was rarely felt, an elixir of celestial passion infused within a single psyche. None who have experienced such elation have realized that this fleeting rapture is transitory, a channel for unconscionable despair.

The darkness was the single medium between salvation and perdition, its nadir pulsating with triumph. The werewolf emerged, drinking deep of the chalice of victory, letting the intoxication of adrenaline fill him with that inexplicable sense of pure purpose, a sheer rightness that at once justified his atrocities and fulfilled his sadistic desires. He had waited too long for this, and he would exact revenge in such a way as to conjure eternal ruination upon his victim.

A shadow obscured the moonlight, and the child instinctively tensed, his fragile sinews so taut they might sever like a castoff marionette, its owner forsaken. The infinite light that had inspired an irrational hope inside him was extinguished, never to be reignited.

There was something concealed in the minor eclipse, and Remus' heart convulsed in a mingled dread and inquisitiveness as he sought to elude it, yet to ascertain its source. Discretion urged him to withdraw, to retreat to his parents, but curiosity, the most primal and audacious of all impulses, bade him advance. Thus he did, submitting, as all of mankind had done, to his own inquiry, oblivious of the shadow's implications. In the stimulating midnight air, all of his senses seemed more vivid, exuding a force of vitality rarely felt. The shadow was tangible; it lingered in both mental and temporal spheres. He could touch it, feel the tenebrous, velvety texture that devoured its surroundings, sense the sharp, acerbic odor of twilight, and he heard the perpetual, baleful howl, a sinister omen. The innocent advanced yet further, only to regret his imprudence greatly when the shadow awakened, growling in exultation at having detected its prey.

Fight or flight? he needlessly inquired, as the poignant answer appeared, a mentally ocular image. He could see the intangible hand guiding him, urging the boy to evade the werewolf, for such the shadow was. He took a tentative step back, the werewolf following, now slavering in its bestial glee. Another series of steps, each meteorically increasing in trepidation, and yet another, until he had retreated past the Rubicon of defense. Powerless to repel the wolf, he braced himself for its lunging strike… which streaked like a fulminating blast. The werewolf slashed at him with cruelly sharp claws, striking randomly as if in a trance from his fulfilled desire. A deceptively delicate laceration at his lower legs sent him kneeling helplessly, transfixed upon his predator's jaws. Another scratch of vengeance, then a series to mutilate him, yet the beast was still unfinished in his inhumane operation. Remus strove to rise, yet his bloodied, mangled legs could not support any weight. As he submerged within oblivion once more, the realization, the epiphany that nothing but excruciation would remain, struck him. There would be nothing but suffering.

==============================incisum=============================

An unexpected, discordant sound shot through the air, startling Actaeon's prone form upon his bed: he sprang, disconcerted by its tone, and realization from countless training sessions shot through him: what would Alastor Moody, his personal mentor, have said? "Constant vigilance. Constant, never-ceasing vigilance. Never reveal a single crack in your defense, or your enemies will exploit it." The sound reverberated again within his skull, distorted by the panic that he had sought to exorcise when he had first applied as an Auror. The howl was distinct, in that it was the howl of a wolf… with the vocal cords of a human.

"Damnation!" he screamed, and Artemis dared take a reproachful glance at him, until the sound echoed again. He rushed up the stairs, the translucent moonlight the mere source of light that guided him, yet had been the catalyst for his misfortune—would his imprudence cost him his son? Artemis followed, silent, and their mingled tread arrived at the door, their trepidation protracting their temporal senses. The door slid open… to reveal a sanguine conflagration: their child's lifeblood, the same that flowed within their veins, had been shed by the very entity he had sought to protect Remus from.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!" Rage blinding him to the Ministry's prohibitions on the Unforgivable Curses, he flung it toward his mortal enemy, who gave a final, exultant howl as to mock the fate awaiting his child. The most they could do was check their offspring for a pulse, yet symbols that life still flowed within Remus were nonexistent.

The rest was silence.


End file.
